


The Gospel of Sand

by LuciferIsSatan



Series: Mouth of Madness [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Character Dynamics, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Instability, Non-Romantic Relationships, Non-Sexual relationships, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:45:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferIsSatan/pseuds/LuciferIsSatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The origins of Father Martin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gospel of Sand

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read any stories dealing with Father Martin's dynamic with the Twins, and I think there is just so much to talk about there; whether or not the twins clung to Father Martin or it was the other way around, or how the loyalty was formed and why. This is just one take on their dynamic, as there can be a great many when it comes to interpretations. (Also, the Twins don't have any names, so I'm just going to call them something I'll deem fit for them?)
> 
> And I just wanted there to be more Outlast fanfiction that isn't just Waylon/Eddie because? There are too many dynamic characters to write about than to just stick with the one. (A/N: Poorly beta read by myself, so I apologize for any and all mistakes.)

Father Martin wouldn't call himself much of a "Father" anymore.

He's aware that he's sick, painfully so that he knows he may never be able to stand in front of a congregation and reflect over his sermons ever again. His Sundays are spent wasted between padded walls because he's still new and the doctors haven't yet decided whether or not he was safe to be around other patients. Martin didn't know whether or not it was for his safety or theirs, but he knew he was getting too far along in his life to be causing much more harm than he already has.

An episode; that's what his doctor, Dr. Neil Wolfram, has taken to calling what had happened. Martin himself wasn't sure of the implications, or what had happened during his last day of freedom, only having had picked up bits of what has been told to him through slips of the tongue. He only remembers talking, his bible in hand and speaking but he can't remember what he was saying, or the person he had been speaking to, least of all their name or face. They had been coming to his church for over fifteen years, but he couldn't, for the life of him remember who they were. They're gone now, from what he's been told, they've been gone for a very long time. 

It was a transition, all of this had been one long and terrible transition for him; from speaking to the Sunday masses, to sitting alone hour after hour as a man in a white coat comes in to speak with him for an odd amount of time before leaving once again.

He had nothing to preoccupy his time with, but his bible that he'd been granted to keep him company until the lights go down. No sense of time outside of meals and lights, that move Mount Massive like clockwork; guards doing their rounds as if this place wasn't a prison already. All over a mistake he couldn't remember making, which stripped him of his title, his home, and his life work. Leaving him in this..- this isolated monstrosity where the devil runs rampant in the eyes of every person burrowing away in their sorrows and misfortune.

It's what he deserves, or so he's forced himself to believe. To be punished for his sins, to be punished for being weak; God hates sickness, and Father Martin is terribly sick.

Dr. Neil Wolfram assures him that he'll be able to join the other's soon, deemed fit or so he says. He brought another bottle of pills too, more colours, and they make him feel numb, but he supposes he should just do as he's told and allow these good people to look after him, because he just can't anymore.

He wants to get better, but he's considered a risk. Martin know's that perhaps Dr. Wolfram isn't supposed to tell him these things, but perhaps his past affiliation with the church had lowered the walls that the good doctor had set up for himself. He wanted to believe that perhaps the good doctor trusted him a little, especially after a few sessions, but perhaps that's just the impression he's always wanted to bestow on people; to be trusted, and to gain admiration. A man of God must be able to communicate with fallen or lost shepherds- to herd the sheep that had lost their way. Communication is key, at least that much he remembers.

Eventually his rights had been granted, and he found himself on a strict route to the lunch hall and back. Therapy began moving outside of his own room, and into actual comfortable places where he can speak like he used to, allowing him to reach out more with all the room they've granted him. Unfortunately the leeway was still so limited, due to him consistently considered unstable; he's blacked out on a few occasions, causing a rise of worry among staff. Always woken up strapped to his bed, where the restraints were just too tight on his wrists, and his head would feel heavy and his vision would be clouded.

Martin even noticed that there was even a difference in medication, once he realized he was losing more and more time between hours from breakfast to dinner. Sometimes he'd wake up, and he'll be two days farther than he remembers from his time falling asleep. Snippet's from the days he's missed, come to him slowly but gradually eventually, but never in exact or in any specific order. It wasn't until Dr. Wolfram eventually introduced him to art therapy, that the episodes began to diminish greatly.

He was certain that he was getting better. The drawing was nice, and the paper mâché's were time consuming, but the one thing he enjoyed the most, was the finger painting, as childish as it was. It felt more controlled, with the cold paint against his fingertips running along a smooth canvas with no real direction of where his wrist would take him. A brush could smear or move out of direction, the hairs untrustworthy, and all Martin really wanted was to have a sense of control over something; a steady brush.

Needless to say, he hadn't made anything he was particularly proud of, other than he was fond of making it. It was a process, and the process was far more important than the end product.

Or so he told himself.

The therapy seemed to be working regardless, although he was rather oblivious to the fact without really considering it. He knew there was still so much to go, and at this point, he wasn't even entirely certain what his end goal for himself, exactly was anymore.

Perhaps Mount Massive does cure him, then what comes after? Do they intend to release him once they've deemed him fit for society, or do they intend to keep him here forever? Drugged up and numb, finger painting until he's unable to properly feed himself anymore? He's wondered, on more than one occasion, whether or not they ever let anyone leave this place, or if people truly ever get better? It occurred to him, as the days went on and he was granted more privileges, that he's seen new faces, but mostly just old ones with ghosts against their skin, running it's icy fingers through their hair and against their cheeks. Old shadows against people that look perfectly healthy, or maybe perhaps their therapy was working.

Martin couldn't trust himself to know the difference anymore.

Regardless, he's never witnessed someone leaving, has never seen anyone get better to the point of freedom, lest it be granted to them. All he see's is sickness, surrounding him, engulfing the man he used to be and seeing a shadow of his own; a shadow that used to follow him, and had now taken his place completely. The bible no longer brings him comfort, and he'd quite rejected the idea of companionship in a place like this. He thought perhaps if he were to broaden his horizons a bit, then he'd finally feel a bit more comfortable; books, this padded prison simply had to have more books within its containment.

Wasn't too hard to talk his therapist into letting him into the Library; incidentally, the place is usually under strict card and key, and only very few were allowed into its parameter. Martin understood why, of course; it's so easy for patients to become disillusioned and lost in the fantasies spurring up in their heads. It seemed that most of the books, as he scanned them with watchful eyes, were mostly political and historical, although Martin couldn't find it in himself to complain. The fiction section was mostly empty, and with what was actually there, were simple stories such as To kill a Mockingbird or The Hobbit. Mostly over-read tales that the staff had originally deemed safe for a lunatic to get their hands on, he supposed.

Mostly, however, Martin stuck close to mythology.

Ancient Roman, to Greek, typically; there was a novel about Pompeii back in 79 AD, a few days prior to Mount Vesuvius erupting, following the story of an Aquarius and a Noble family. Martin had brushed his thumb over a story he remembers reading back in grade school, around the stabbing of Julius Caesar, however the story wasn't the one written by Shakespeare, but a rather unknown author whom had created a character against the assassination. The History of the Peloponnesian War was here too, and Martin was surprised to find the Divine Comedy of Dante's Inferno upon these shelves.

Father Martin looked to each of them expectantly, even remorsefully as he struggled to make a decision. It was nothing like the little library he had at home, nothing like the walls filled with old text and fantasy books he divulged in when nobody was paying him any mind. He must have been standing there for hours before he heard steps approaching him from behind. Martin had half expected it to be the steps of Dr. Wolfram, or even one of the guards; either to reprimand him for being so terribly indecisive, or to take him back to his room.

Perhaps he was a little surprised to hear a calm voice a little over his shoulder. It sounded smooth and slow, light but deep and it triggered something uneasy in the depth of his stomach, causing him to turn just slightly to find two looming men a few easy steps behind him.

Two men, who resembled twins, were regarding the Father with sharp eyes and thin lips. Martin noted that the one that was mostly bald, happened to be somewhat taller than the man to his left, who had short tufts of hair atop his head. Large and brooding, and something told the Father that they were just ghosts too; like everyone else. Solid ghosts, with shadows in their expression, and heavy hearts that turned cold.

Something also told the Father that they were dangerous, but Martin had never been a man to turn away those were were dancing on the head of a pin.

"He seems lost," said the first one, the one that's balding and standing on the right. The second man didn't nod, or acknowledge his brother, or so Martin was assuming, with anything but a comment, his voice just as soft, and just as low.

"That he does," they spoke in something Martin wanted to call hushed whispers; a floating calm that lingers, "perhaps we should assist him?"

"Perhaps we should," but neither of them moved, still regarding him. Martin tried not to twiddle his fingers in nervous habit, settling to focus on the boys before tilting his head.

"Would you prefer if I were to.. introduce myself first?" Martin began slowly, feeling a little odd as it was the first time he's spoken to anyone who wasn't Dr. Wolfram, "before you..- assist me, as it were." The twin's said nothing, but Martin caught the two of them sneaking a slight glance in the others direction, almost as if they were unsure. Although they were large, and perhaps dangerous men, they were still people, and Martin's not entirely sure if anyone's tried to treat them as such. Hesitantly, he reached out a timid hand, smiling gently, "My name is Martin Archimbaud, although many may know me as Father Martin, I'm not much of a priest anymore."

The twins stared at his hand, the bald one even raised his brow a little before carefully reaching out his own. His large hand was rough and warm against Martin's, encasing his own with his fingers and palm. His tongue was against the back of his teeth, or what was left of many of them anyways, and Martin noted the slight hesitance of his own on the other end.

"Julian," he said, his tongue flicking out to lick his lower lip. Martin smiled, pressing his lips together politely before nodding as their hands fell apart.

Julian looked to his brother, who seemed to be a bit more confident in putting out his hand, "Gilander," he said slowly, as Martin shook his hand. His hands were encasing of his own as well, both large, and both similar as they're both covered in calluses. Father Martin paid it little mind, smiling softly at the both of them.

"It's wonderful to meet the both of you," he assured, allowing his hand to fall back to his side, "so the two of you spend time here often? Any books you could recommend?"

The twins seemed to be at a bit of a loss at first, even perhaps a little surprised before Gilander, the shorter of the two, stepped forward and pulled out a thick brimmed book just a few paces to the Fathers right. Martin eyed it as Gilander hesitated, pushing the novel out towards the Father with something like reluctance; whether it was reluctance to hand over the book, or the reluctance of handing it over to Martin himself, he wasn't sure. Martin accepted graciously, thanking him in kind before pulling open the book to scan over the summery on the inner cover.

"Perhaps we should ask if he would like to join us," Martin's ears perked, raising his head to look at Julian who kept his eyes elsewhere.

"We should," came the response from Gilander, but neither made the effort to actually ask. It occurred to Martin that perhaps they're unaccustomed to speak to anyone directly, besides amongst themselves. Martin figured he'd just have to adapt.

"I'd love to," he said, just as quietly as to respect the volume that they were using. The twins made no notion to acknowledge that he'd said anything, and only then made to turn as they began to walk off; at first Martin wasn't sure whether or not he should follow, until he noticed one of them look over their shoulder at him, pausing a bit in step. Martin caught up with them in mere moments, steps behind them and following like a sheep until they reached a mostly empty table, where the twins took to sitting.

Martin grabbed the seat across from them, setting down the book in front. He hadn't had the chance to open it once he heard Gilander asking him a question, which he felt guilty for asking him to repeat. The twin didn't seem to mind much before asking again.

"How long have you been a Father?" and it seemed as if the words were a little strained, and Martin was simply thankful that he gave the effort to ask directly this time.

"Forty-Six years," or at least, he was certain it had been that long. His memory was still rather fuzzy, and he still doesn't know the exact details of what caused him to lose that title. Martin folded his hands carefully on the table in front of him, looking down at the curve of his fingers thoughtfully, "it had been a long time, dear boy."

The twins shared a look, but after that, went silent. Recreation went by slowly after the fact, and Martin tried to let himself relax, read and get lost in the words as he sat in something he would be a little surprised to admit felt like companionable silence. It felt a little strange, especially after all this time of being isolated away from everyone, that he'd ever be able to achieve this..- this comfort ever again. It was over before he knew it unfortunately, but he was lucky to find out that he could take his book back to his room to continue reading if he so desired.

He never got the chance to say goodbye to the twins, seeing as they were gone before he even registered that one of the guards was attempting to escort him out of the room. Martin tried not to think much of it, and just continued on his way.

A week had come and gone until he saw the Twins again. Back in the library, but no books in hand; they were sitting, having a hushed conversation, and Martin knew it would be rude to try and cut between and greet them once again. Instead he went back to the shelves.

Martin had finished the book that Gilander had given to him to read, which had been something he was entirely grateful for, especially because he ended up enjoying it more than he had originally anticipated. Reading was an experience he had almost forgotten he enjoyed so much; it wasn't something he often allowed himself to enjoy as much as he felt he should. Gluttony was a sin, he knew that, but lacking indulgence on some occasions killed the spark that life bestowed; perhaps that was why he was being punished.

He sighed quietly to himself, slipping the novel back into it's appropriate spot on the shelves before beginning his search for the next. It wasn't long until he had found a nice little corner with titles he recognized, humming softly in contentment as his fingers brushed over the spines as he read the names silently to himself. It also didn't take much longer for the twins to notice him, but what Martin didn't notice was the sounds of near silent steps as they approached, once again, from behind.

"Father," the title gave Martin a start, but he was able to hide his surprise easily enough that the twins barely noticed. Martin's hands paused against a particularly rough spine, before dropping delicately to clasp with his other in front. He turned to face them, inclining his head politely once he saw that they weren't even looking at him directly.

"Yes?" it's been awhile since anyone has called him _'Father'_ , but perhaps the boys find it polite, or see it to be easier to use rather than his name.

Julian was the one that began speaking, "My brother and I have been thinking."

"Considering," Gilander put in.

"Coming to a conclusion."

"Since you were a priest."

"That you were-"

"Closer to God," Gilander blinked, but other than that, the twins stayed ominously still.

"We're tainted," Julian said slowly, his voice hardening only momentarily. Martin was trying to follow, and said nothing until he was certain they were finished.

"What makes you say that?" Martin asked, but the twins didn't give him an answer.

"We're tainted." Gilander was the one who said it this time, but the words were cryptic to Father Martin, who pressed his lips together in thought. The twins waited, saying nothing, until he did. Like they were waiting for the revelation to strike him, but it came slowly.

His eyes squinted, ever so carefully, before his lips parted silently. "Are you asking me to..-" he paused, straightening his back a little, "untaint you? _Bless_ you, so to speak?"

The twins said nothing, but it seemed to the Father that he was correct. With a short sigh, he shook his head a little, "my dear children," he hummed gently, "it doesn't work like that. You must earn His favour first, for I'm just the messenger," or used to be the messenger, but he prevented himself from saying so aloud. It seemed from his previous attempt at telling the men that he's lost his title, that they didn't seem to care.

Martin didn't miss the little slump in Gilander's shoulders however, or how Julian tensed a fraction. It was then, with a quiet sigh, that he made the decision to take pity on them, for perhaps they didn't know this.

"I can _assist_ you, however," he went on, eyes flickering between their neutral faces and Martin wondered vaguely if they ever showed any sort of expression, "through good deeds, and prayer. Give yourselves over to His good will, and I can lead you through the valley, if this is what you so desire."

"We do."

"Very much so," Julian stepped to the side, his brother doing the same, to give room for Father Martin to step on by, "and keep you safe."

"A beacon of our will,"

"Your protection,"

"We'll pray together,"

"That we will."

Martin looked between them with interest, stepping forward with caution before making his way away from the corner that the wins had trapped him by, and once he looked behind himself, he saw the twins following him until he reached his seat. They sat down in near unison across from him, where Martin instructed them to fold their hands together.

"Bow your heads gently, as it's polite and shows respect," the twins did as they were told, given the option to keep their eyes open or closed, but they both opted to close their eyes. Usually Father Martin would be on his knees during prayer, however, given the situation he was in, and the lack of a proper alter to do so, sitting would have to suffice for now; least until they find a better area. He gave them one last look before ducking his own head, beginning the prayer.

He said his piece, gave his thanks and his praise, before moving to ask the twins if they had anything they would like to add, to which they shook their heads, the prayer coming to an end. After saying their 'Amen's Father Martin looked to the boys with a gentle and passive expression.

"It's never required to add your piece, but when you do have the chance to clear your chest, it's almost like having confession, without the extra ears listening in that are not His." Martin folded his hands onto his lap, "tell Him your worries and sorrows, and if thou means what they are telling Him, then He shall spare His forgiveness unto you."

"Thank you, Father," they said in unison, and Martin knew that if they truly wanted forgiveness, then they were surely going to receive.

It became like a metronome, months after the initial event. They would find places to pray, and sometimes they were chat; the longer Martin kept up with them, the more comfortable they seemed to become. Their initial hesitance and reluctance had melted away, causing them to be more sure of themselves when around the Father, and entrusting him with things that they perhaps never even discussed with their therapist. For giving them a chance of redemption, the boys have given him their trust and loyalty, and even their companionship which Martin had grown fond of over the passing weeks.

He would show them his finger paintings, and tell them about the Great Revelations and the story of how Abraham even cast his eyes away at something he couldn't quite understand. Julian and Gilander had confessed their sins, and wrongdoings to him during one exceptionally rainy Tuesday afternoon, during their recreational time sitting in the Grand hall filled with windows that the rain was pattering heavily down on. They explained, with vacant hesitance the atrocities they have committed, the lives they have taken, and the people they've devoured. Martin looked onward, neutrally, nodding along and only speaking once asked to.

They told him of their family, of their conceivement. It was the shame and anger evident in their voices that had told the Father that _this_ was what they felt they needed redemption from. That this is what made them believe they were impure and tainted, simply because they were imbred.

"You are not your parents," he had told them, hands outstretched over the table and taking one of their hands with each of his own, "you are not responsible for their wrongdoings, and although a product of their sins, you are not a sin yourself." Whether or not they believed him was up for debate, but they nodded and it put his mind at ease.

It was in these months, and their long elated chat's, that Father Martin had began meeting other inmates here at Mount Massive Asylum. Many of which he believed were beyond saving, and others he pitied more than anything else.

A large man named Chris Walker had caught his attention on a few occasions; he was a simple man, with severe PTSD and an issue with self mutilation. He's seen him in art therapy on occasion, often time's with a guard or two and a psychiatrist that had been spending a great deal of time trying to teach him how to weave flower stems together. Honestly, he frightened Martin at the best of times, and the Father was careful to keep his distance as much as possible.

Then there was an inmate named Eddie Gluskin, which the twins had told him with intense adamance to stay far away from, but never explained to him why. Martin heeded their warnings regardless, even if he didn't understand them, but he didn't need their say so to avoid a particularly touchy patient called Frank Manera, who isn't often around. He's been told of Frank's doings but has never been held witness of them; mostly Manera is locked far away from other patients, so Martin was never given much of a chance to form a personal opinion other than the ones given to him to have.

Some patients were gentle, while other's had been kind and seemed nervous when approaching him. Many of which had heard news of the prayer sessions outside of Sunday church, and a few had come on occasion to pray with him while the Twins were elsewhere. The doctor's didn't like it in the least, and had attempted to shut down his efforts to help others on numerous occasions, and it only got worse once Mount Massive had been taken over by a corporation called Murkoff. Guard's and staff had increased ten-fold, and his prayer sessions came to an abrupt end while his therapy had grown more frequent, but far less productive.

There was a woman in there now, asking intrusive questions and on a few instances had become physical, least until Dr. Wolfram had her escorted from the room. But she was always there, every time he came back; harsh, demeaning, questioning. Yet, it seemed he wasn't the only one who didn't care much for her, but he supposed that Dr. Wolfram had his hands tied, unfortunately.

Patients had started coming up missing, along with men and women in white coats coming through and picking out people and escorting them away. The ones that would come back were shaken and badly harmed, but no matter how much he would protest on their behalf, nobody listened. He was just another of the sick, another soul to the call that they could squander without a moment's hesitation.

It wasn't until he was introduced to a man named Trager that he began to fear for the worst.

He was an uplifting sort of man, very friendly and jovial with a sharp sense of humour, however there was a serpent behind his eyes, twitching and slithering behind his sharp grin. Martin was a great many things, but he wasn't blind, and Trager eventually became aware of it. Not like he minded, of course. He thought very little of the priest, and he wasn't above saying so; thought it was silly how many patients would flock to him, especially after Murkoff had cut off the funding for the Church, leaving that part of the building mostly abandoned now.

He's claimed, on more than one occasion, that he intends to enforce these "crazies" with a new set of standards.

Martin feared that perhaps he would.

Patients were impressionable, that much he knew for certain. But they were also afraid, and creatures that are frightened often don't fear of lashing out. Especially as more and more were being taken away; it wasn't long after that more programs began losing funding, and unfortunately the art program had lost its support as well, with the library having been torn down shortly after and renovated. The results to such actions had been utterly devastating among the patient's, and most prominently, with Father Martin himself.

Martin can still remember the fear he felt of blacking out again, like he used to; he was afraid of the time he would lose, and was resentful of the shell that he had been forced to become. But now, now he's seeing the shadows, and it's beginning to take a form that he could almost touch. Whispers through the walls at night bring him names; names of a boy named William Hope, of Billy, and the dark creature called the Walrider. All whispers and murmurs, and he finds himself whispering and murmuring back; it was like an itch he couldn't scratch, like static against his skin at night. Where the whispers turned to screams, and where the pounding against the walls were echoing and reverberating as if it were a heartbeat, alive in the core of the asylum.

After all these years, he knew he had been foolish, giving himself away, mind and body, to the wrong entity. Hell was empty, and the devils were all around him, and inside him, but then there was Him, and He was great but weak and perhaps this God needed belief in order to survive. In order to properly exist, and Father Martin recognized a calling when granted to him. All this time he had believed it to be shadows, and ghosts, and he had been so foolish and willfully ignorant, for which there is no greater sin.

Being sent to Mount Massive wasn't a punishment, he should have been able to see the signs before. It had been a gift, his revelation; the Walrider had sent for him, that much he knew for certain. He came to him when he was at his weakest, to enlighten those who would listen. The Swarm had come unto him, dear God.

The Swarm had come, the Swarm had come.

  
  


It was a desperate act in hopes to silence him.

The Gospel was spreading like a virus, festering in the hearts and souls of those who've wanted to please Him. He had grown stronger in these past few months, lives have been lost but it was a sacrifice that had to be made for His good will. Weeding out the weak and those unworthy, those who do not wish to please this unmerciful God shall be punished accordingly, and His truth shall be torn into the bodies of the non believers until there isn't any left.

Father Martin was the one the staff blamed, refusing to see the wonderful things that were happening just before their very eyes, and they were becoming desperate. Grabbing him out of his cell during a break out of inmates; they were calling it a riot, but the Father knew what he was seeing before his very eyes. It was His will to release His followers, mere sheep that he has destined the Father to herd together. For what purpose, he didn't know, but he was certain he would find out.

Yet he couldn't reach his children, the hands on his arms were rough and painful, and a sharp kick to the back of his knees had him falling with a sharp cry. They kept him upright, doctors he's never seen before, speaking to him in harsh tones as they dragged him forward.

"-this'll shut him up real nice," he heard one of them hiss, it was a man from what he could distinguish, who sharply twisted Father Martin's arm who made a near pitiful attempt to wiggle free. The Father cried out once again, his brows furrowing in pain as these demons forced him forward with a rough tug, dragging him down the long corridor. There was a loud shout behind them that had echoed behind them, before one of the doctors spat out a curse.

" _Shit_ , they're coming."

"Fuck, walk _faster_ -"

One of them, a different man, hissed at the others to quiet down, "fucking..- did you see that?"

"Let's get the fuck outta here-"

"We're _not_ going anywhere, until we dispose of him," there was another rough tug and Martin could feel hot flashes of pain in his shoulder blades, where the doctors were forcing his arms back, "got it? We can't have him gallivanting around and convincing the next batch of psycho's to worship _fuck_ knows what-"

"He's just an old man Davi-"

"Have you _seen_ his goddamn influence?" the other hissed in a semi shout, "it was harmless at first, but this? He created a goddamned fucking cult-"

Another slam caused the doctors to go silent. Father Martin could feel the hands on him tense up, as if they hadn't already been so; their breathing going harsh, and after a moments hesitation, Martin felt his feet leave the floor and his back slam against the wall, head smacking the surface with a sharp sound, causing the Father severe disorientation, kicking his feet weakly to try and find the ground. There were strong hands against his shoulders, and one against his throat, not choking, but as a threat of what may come.

Father Martin's eyes were unfocused, his breathing shaky and hands quaking as he attempted to push the other off of him. His attempts were mostly fruitless, as the man was a solid mass he was struggling to budge.

"Foolish, foolish, foolish," his breath was coming out in harsh puff's, "accepting the Gospel would have freed you, and yet you.. y-you chose to squander in your self righteous ignorance, and for this, you will suffer."

" _Christ_ , do you ever shut the fuck up?" the man growled, but his voice no longer sounded assured. He sounded frightened. "Once we're finished with you, old man, there won't be a scrap of your made up Gospel left, you hear that?"

"He's senile, just finish him off already." Impatience was a sin, but the Father supposed that these lost lambs didn't have any virtues to their names.

The hand on his throat tightened, cutting off his air with a short gasp. His hands tightened against white sleeves, pushing and pushing as he tried to get the body off of him, his vision going fuzzy as he coughed to try and breathe. He could feel his heart pounding erratically in his chest, panic rising up his throat with his legs kicking and trying desperately to breathe.

It was once his hands were losing momentum, and his strength had all diminished, that he felt the hand on his throat release him completely, allowing him to fall on his rear with a shout and a gasp. With his limbs shaky and head pounding, he could hear the blood in his ears rushing as he tried to find his bearings. There was talking..- or more like shouting, which described the white noise drifting in the hallways quite exceptionally, but he was having such a difficult time making out what was being said, at least until he pressed the palm of his hand against the wall, steering himself.

He heard a soft, familiar voice, not too far away.

"My God, where could they have went?"

"I sense sarcasm."

"As was my intention."

The Father tried looking up, but his head was in too much pain.

"They made a mistake."

"A dire mistake."

"Mistakes can be forgiven."

"But not this one."

It wasn't long until Martin felt a gentle hand press against his shoulder, the palm large and encasing before assisting him to stand, which he did so very weakly. There was a hand against his back, keeping him leveled and holding him upright, which the Father couldn't have been more thankful for. He blinked an abundance of times, brows furrowed in pain, but the twin never forced him to hurry, patiently waiting for him to right himself.

"How are you feeling, Father?" it was Gilander, and Martin isn't certain where Julian had run off too.

"I'm better now, my child, thank you," his eyes lifted a little to take in the sight of the other, a little surprised to see him dawning no clothes upon his person. He politely raised his gaze to the others eyes, "where is your brother?"

Gilander moved one hand down to take Father Martin's wrist, keeping his other still steady against his back. His words licking the air like a flame, "Inflicting punishment."

There was a scream, distant at first before going quiet entirely. Father Martin's eyes widened a fraction, before he lowered them with a small smile, "I see."

It didn't take a great deal of waiting for Julian to make his appearance once again, his steps soundless as he made his way down the hall, with a long blade that was coated in what the Father was certain was blood. He was bare as well, and looking pointedly at the Father with something that seemed similar to concern.

"I am alright, my son," Father Martin moved a little from Gilander, although the twin kept a hand against his back, "thank's to the both of you, and to our Lord, the Walrider, for sending you my way," he pressed a gentle hand against both of their arms, looking either direction of the hall before gesturing for the two to follow, "come, my children, back to my cell. There is something I must do."

"Father?"

"We shall head to the Church after," he assured, nodding to them over his shoulder as he walked, "we must gather our flock, and I must change."

"Change, Father?" it was Julian this time.

"Into proper attire, dear boy," his fingers tapped against his hip, looking from hall to hall until he was certain he was heading in the right direction. "I mustn't call myself a Priest until I look as one, don't you think?" The twin's said nothing, but followed obediently behind, at least until they reached the cell block. Doors were unlocked and there were bodies on the floor, inmates slamming their heads against walls and screaming in their cells with the doors wide open. Ordering them to wait by his door, Father Martin slipped inside of his cell, before carefully removing his unbound straight jacket.

He looked at either side, carefully moving a few straps around before tearing off loose ends as neatly as he could manage. Once satisfied, he slipped it back on, only backwards, thumbing the beige stripes and adjusting the front to fold over a bit messily, grabbing the buckle and fastening it into place, leaving only a tail of his jacket behind him, swooping just above his ankles. Father Martin didn't have a mirror, but he knew this would do wonderfully for his purposes. He grabbed his slippers that had been sitting at the edge of the bed, before slipping them on, carefully adjusting a few more things until he was completely satisfied. Taking one last look around his cell.

Martin called the boys in, who regarded him with a strange sort of admiration as they took in what he's done, before he asked to see the blade in Julian's hand. He handed it back once he had collected enough blood to smear against the walls of his cell.

"Dear dying lamb," he said softly, forming a cross with blood coated fingers, "thy precious blood, shall never lose it's power."

Julian held back out the blade, allowing Father Martin to gather a bit more before he moved to the end of the bed, moving to rest on his knees as he wrote.

"Do you remember that book you had handed me, Gilander?" he said, rubbing his thumb over a smear, "on the day we met?"

Gilander looked to him and Father Martin could hear him take in a sharp intake of air, "Yes."

Martin hummed in a way that sounded satisfactory, gesturing for the twins to take a seat on his bed, reaching over a little to the blade which Julian held carefully to him, keeping the sharp end faced the opposite direction.

"You seemed awfully fond of the novel that you handed to me. Perhaps you recall the message?"

Gilander was quite a long moment, mulling over his answer, but only coming up with "I do not."

"That's alright," he gathered a little bit more blood, looking down at the lukewarm thickness of it on his finger tips, rubbing it between his thumb and fingers. He raised his hand once again, "it spoke of great wars held by men on earth in the name of their Gods," he hummed, voice low, "the sins they committed in Their name, to justify their actions. So blinded, so foolish."

"Today, my sons, today is the marking of a victory," he drawled, closing his fingers and brushing his knuckles against the letters, "a victory made possible by our Lord, the Walrider, and for this we must be thankful, however," Martin's eyes dropped from the wall, to glance at the men sitting on his bed, the two of them looking at him with neutral expectancy, "the day after a triumph," he began, lowering his eyes, "is always as hollow as the day after a tragedy, and my, a tragedy it is."

The twins said nothing, but it was clear they weren't having an easy time following his thoughts, "Many a life was lost today in His name," he said quietly, "as will the days passing as more lives come forward to give. Many sacrifices will be given, just do not be frightened if He were to choose you."

"An honour," one of the twins said, although Martin's focus was back to the walls. It was quiet for a long stretch, filled with soft hums and the slick sound of wet fingers against the dry padding of the cell, the smell of iron in their nostrils.

"What shall we do once we reach the Church?" asked Julian once he saw the Father making to stand, moving over to assist.

"Perhaps we'll pray," replied Gilander.

"We'll do more than pray," Father Martin said with a hum, moving his fingers over the soft padding, "we'll be free, my children. We'll be free."

**Author's Note:**

> Also, it's undetermined whether or not Father Martin was actually a priest before he had been admitted to the Asylum, but for the sake of giving him a realistic back story, that's what I'm going to say happened. (Also: I found out that there is already a character named Julian in the game, but he only shows up for the ending of the DLC Whistleblower, so I'm purposely ignoring the fact) 
> 
> I'm tempted to do a "adventures of Martin and twins" set of stories about, well, them, because they're such great characters and I want there to be more stories about them.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. ^^


End file.
